


between dreaming and waking

by diana_hawthorne (stsgirlie)



Category: Cracks (2009)
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-02
Packaged: 2018-05-04 13:42:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5336177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stsgirlie/pseuds/diana_hawthorne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She sleeps, and dreams awake... a character study in four parts; Poppy, Di, Miss G, Fiamma.</p>
            </blockquote>





	between dreaming and waking

_pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees_  
in fancy, fair st. agnes in her bed,  
but dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled.  
-“the eve of st. agnes”, john keats

 _and all night **between dreaming and waking** i thought of [her]; in my brief dreams she took a hundred fantastic and terrible and obscene forms..._  
-brideshead revisited, evelyn waugh

She sleeps, and dreams awake, burnished blonde hair wrapped around her heart. Rapunzel’s hair, smooth and silky locks holding her ever more firmly against her will, or in accordance with it – she’s not sure. How can she be? She is... intoxicated.

She sleeps, and dreams awake, the woman who populates her every waking moment appearing here, as always. Shining black hair and deep, passionate eyes! The dark depths of them draw her in. She feels herself shackled to the burning-bright zeal, drawn down and down and down, nevermore to emerge.

She sleeps, and dreams awake, seeing rhythmic Spanish curves in the lines of her body, hears them in the rounded bell-tones of her voice. It is the essence of her being... She cannot see anything but flowing lines, and perfect form, and what the artists of the Renaissance must have seen in their Muses.

She sleeps, and dreams awake, hearing the voice of the boy she loved (no – loves, no matter what), but thin, as if from a distance. He could not quote poetry or write his own but his words, to her, were far more precious than anything Keats or Yeats ever wrote. They were his words, after all, for her... and now they fade into middle distance, lost in the space between dreaming and waking.


End file.
